Pug-faced Hispanic drinks herself so numb she doesn't even notice when last night's chimichanga is hanging halfway out her asshole. Her laugh is as bad as her hygiene. Sounds like something Steven Urkel would emit while making love to the dude from Wonder Years. Watch this one all the way through.
The real hero of today's adventure should be whatever surgeon sews that bag of expired beef back together in the last clip. It seems learning how to be a boxer through YouTube videos with a language barrier has consequences. More [here]
Door Dash your chimichangas and fire up the Demi Lovato playlist, for you are about to witness the pinnacle of peak male performance. Not since the 2017 inauguration have I heard this many vegan-powered war cries go unanswered lol
I'm getting the impression the lady at the 1:04 mark is no stranger to shotgunning a couple servings of Butthole du Jour after a succulent Chinese meal. But flip a camera on and the nerves clap her trap faster than a the DM's from a Discord moderator. More HERE.
Today's episode isn't about the money. It's about sending a message. Specifically to the derelicts that have used the Riemann hypothesis and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture to justify paying for what you're about to see: Stop it. Get some help.
After seeing so many of these situations, sometimes I find myself asking; "Surely this is a planted setup?" I simply refuse to believe anomalies this brazen would be shown less audible disgust than someone being told the McFlurry machine is broken when they get noticed.
Meet Luciana. aka Timea Bella. aka Indisputable Liar. She claims her stink whistle has less mileage on it than the Peloton in Ozzy Osbourne's basement, yet doesn't even call a timeout when Woody goes straight to the A. But when it comes time to sample some French vanilla, she calls it quits. Stay tuned for part 2 where I'll showcase her triumphant comeback.
A rousing assembly of women that don't believe teh night is over until their clout levels have reached unmeasurable proportions. Reminiscent of a reoccurring dream I keep having involving Brock Lesnar and Long John Silver’s Cocktail Sauce.
Not the caliber of female I expected to see on the angry side of Simon Belmont, but I'll roll with the fantasy. Unfortunately there's no aftermath footage, but I would have to imagine by the time this was over it looked like she masturbated with a stick of dynamite.
Our boy successfully pulls off one of the audibles taught in Bang: More Lays in 60 Days, but the tables quickly turn on him. From then on it's a battle of egos as this greenhorn frolics through her first rear admiral'ing like it's a full body massage. There won't be a sequel.
